Happy Paw's Day
by Marla Fair
Summary: Written for Bonanza Boomers June 'Pennings from Prompts', which was a challenge to write a 1000 word Father's Day tale.


Happy Paw's Day

It was late. The sun had set and all the day's chores were done. It was the time of night when he had a moment to himself and he looked forward to it. Crossing the length of the kitchen, the man took a cloth and, wrapping it around the handle of the steaming kettle, lifted the pot and carried it over to the block table. He filled his cup and then sat down and relished the strong scent of the tea that rose to greet him. Much as he loved the three rambunctious young men in his household, a man just needed some time to himself. As he lifted the cup to his lips, he smiled.

Well, at least he needed some _adult_ time to himself.

The month was June, but it was a cold June. Outside the window the night cried, its strong tears soaking the brown cheeks of the earth. The tall pines that surrounded the ranch house bent in honor of its fury. The man sighed as he pursed his lips and blew across the surface of the hot liquid to cool it. As the ripples struck the vessel's rim, breaking like waves and turning back upon themselves, he considered the ripples in his own life and their obvious and not so obvious ends.

He could only pray they would be good.

Taking his cup with him, the man went to the kitchen window. Parting the checkered curtains with his free hand, he looked outside. In the end a man did what he could. More than that, he did what he believed was right not only for himself, but for those he loved. Sometimes it was with a cuff, but more often with a caress. At times with a loud voice, and at other times without a word at all. Often actions spoke louder than anything a man could say. The touch of a hand on a shoulder.

Or a behind.

They all needed discipline. All of his boys.

But the youngest one most of all.

It had been a hard day for the child he loved, too young to be included, but too old to be excluded from the poor choices he had made. The boy had left when it was not permitted, done what was foolish, and then come when it was not time. He had been so angry.

If the child had died, he would have died as well.

It had pained him to strike him and to send him to his room with stern words and an even sterner gaze. The wounded look out of those piercing green eyes had been a knife blade to his heart. Still, it could not be helped. Love was not shown by giving permission where permission should be denied. Lessons were not learned if the one who was the teacher became the pupil of the one they taught.

Did the boy understand how much he loved him, the man wondered? Did he know it as he sat there in his room, called upon to remain still, when stillness was an abomination to him? The man paused as a slight smile curled his lips.

 _If_ the boy could sit down.

Dropping the curtain, the man returned to the table. He collected the kettle and placed it again on the stove. Then he left the kitchen and walked into the great room and headed for the fire.

As he did, he heard a noise. A small noise. A _familiar_ noise.

Sniffing.

Halting beside the table that backed the sofa with its figure of a horse rampant, the man waited.

Another sniff.

"I'm sorry," a little voice said.

The man hid his smile. "Sorry for what you did before, or sorry you disobey now?"

A pause.

"Huh?"

The man's gaze went to the steps - and walked up them. "Little Joe should know. He should be upstairs, not downstairs."

A head of brown curls, wild and untamed as the windblown mane on that rampant horse, crested above the curved back of the settee. It was followed by a pair of wide green eyes. The curve of the sofa, the man knew, hid the boy's pert nose and the full lips which were as prone to pout as to smile.

Impish eyes blinked. A second later the five-year-old's pudgy hand appeared, clutching a piece of paper.

"I made something for you," he said, like that said it all.

"Something for me?" the man asked, puzzled. After all, he had justdisciplined the little boy.

"Sure for you!" the boy proclaimed as he crawled over the arm of the settee, headed for a tumble – which turned into a graceful roll that landed him on his feet.

Before the man could brace himself, the small bundle of unstoppable energy that was Joseph Francis Cartwright barreled into him, nearly knocking him over. Little arms circled his legs and squeezed as tears, powerful as the rain outside the window, fell.

"I'm sorry I followed Adam into the corral. I'm sorry Hoss got kicked in the knee by that mean old horse and I'm sorry it happened 'cause he was worried about me. And..." There was a great gulp of air, followed by several hiccups. "And I'm _real_ sorry I ran away from Adam 'cause he was mad and into the house and ran into you and made you fall down and made you mad and made you ha'f to..." He put a hand to his little backside. "...and made you _whup_ me!"

With a much needed breath , the boy shoved the paper under his nose.

There, on that paper, scribbled in ink that promised another spanking, was a child's rendition of himself and a man – a small man in a short coat who wasn't scolding, but hugging him. Above the man's head were written the words: HAPPY PAW'S DAY.

Little Joe cocked his head. He sniffed again and then threw his arms around the man's neck, his little fingers locking in the black queue that trailed down the back of his silk coat.

"I'm the most luckiest boy in the whole _wide_ world," Little Joe whispered in his ear. "I got me two Paws! Happy Paw's Day, Hop Sing!"

The sky was not the only thing that cried.


End file.
